


for all i can tell

by earnmysong



Category: The Newsroom (US TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-01
Updated: 2013-09-01
Packaged: 2017-12-25 08:28:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/950924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earnmysong/pseuds/earnmysong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Did that really happen? That really happened, right? I’m not dreaming?”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	for all i can tell

**Author's Note:**

> Missing scene(s) from ‘Red Team III’.

\----

Sloan’s a chatty person, can say more in a minute than the average person puts together in five. Add any form of emotion or caffeine into the equation and things ramp up to what Don imagines hyperspeed would look like if it weren’t a fictional concept. They’ve definitely reached that point in the evening’s proceedings.

“Did that really happen? That really happened, right? I’m not dreaming?” As she rambles, she circles around the control room; he turns with her, keeps her in his line of sight for the first minute or so, eventually has to abandon the activity when his head starts to spin. “I had this dream once where I burned my high school to the ground because I lit a cigarette during my valedictory speech in an attempt to de-stress, set my robe on fire, and proceeded to throw said clothing article on the stage. Which was, apparently, made of highly flammable material in this non-reality. I’ve come to the conclusion that it was the universe’s way of foreshadowing the Treasury Secretary thing.” She stops, seems to realize she’s veered off track somewhere along the way. “Anyway, this?” Her hand flits around in front of her to indicate their current situation. “This is so much worse than that.” 

“How many lattes have you had tonight?” he asks around a laugh. 

In lieu of a number, because she knows the exact reaction her answer will elicit, she holds two fingers about an inch apart. “A few.”

“Liar.” She’s fairly stationary at the moment, so he steps closer to her, assessing. “I’d say you finished number five about three seconds before you walked in here.”

She shrugs noncommittally. “I drink when I’m edgy. Though I’ve never personally tested the limits of this particular rule, I’ve been told the management frowns upon alcohol on the clock.” The way she sort of growls the word management makes it clear her authority issues are present and accounted for. “Caffeine is second string defense when it comes to keeping me sane.”

“If we’re talking preservation of sanity, there’s something else that should be on the table.” He waits for her to respond once she figures out what he’s getting at, is fully prepared for derision and some incarnation of _are we five?_. She just stares at him blankly though, eyes wide, so he finally says, “Sleep.”

“If you don’t need sleep, I don’t need sleep.” Her statement has an abundance of the derision he’d been lamenting the lack of a second ago, a fact which makes him smile. She catches it. “I’m serious.”

“No, I know. It’s…” There’s no clean exit strategy here, all the viable options he can think of mention feelings, and feelings cannot be dealt with when their world is crumbling. This isn’t a movie. “What I’m saying is, we, as in the two of us, could use some sleep.”

“My apartment’s forty blocks from here. Also, despite any reports from Maggie that may dispute this, my office does not double as a bedroom very well.”

“My new place is a five-minute walk.” She starts to speak, stops before more than a syllable can come out. He can almost see the thoughts forming in her head, so he cuts them off with, “It’s just a place to crash for a couple hours.”

“Okay.” The word is drawn out, halfway to being a question. He pushes through the door of the control room, looks to see if she’s following so he doesn’t let it smash her in the face (she is), heads for the elevator. “You’re not taking anything with you?” He shoots an exasperated look behind him, gets a _Right. We’ll be in again before we can miss whatever we would’ve needed_ for the effort.

\----

A phone shrills and he shoots a hand out to answer it, still too far into the asleep side of being woken up in the middle of the night to realize it’s the landline in his living room. “Your cell went straight to voicemail,” Neal’s disembodied voice says. “Emergency meeting in twenty.” The line goes dead before he can put together an appropriate reply.

He waits until he can remember what the emergency meeting is about, sits up, takes in his surroundings. Matthew Broderick is twisting and shouting his way across the TV screen, and Sloan is curled up in the corner of the couch opposite him, asleep, with an arm flung across the top half of her face.

( _Ferris Bueller’s Day Off_ has been Sloan’s favorite movie since she was old enough to realize that she did in fact share her name with someone, even if that someone was a fictional character who added an extra letter to it. This is only one of many things he has come to know about Sloan Sabbith. Another of these is that, if asked, _Ferris Bueller_ doesn’t even rank among her top five favorites.)

Shutting off the movie has no effect on her whatsoever, so he stands, walks over to shake her awake. She angrily spews a string of random consonants at him, tries to shove him off without success. Her attempt to roll away almost lands her on the floor, but he pushes her into a sitting position before she can fall.

When she’s awake enough to actually absorb information, he says, “We have to go”, relays Neal’s message while they walk downstairs. (He keeps his hand against the small of her back the whole way, tells himself he’s only making sure she doesn’t trip. If she notices, she doesn’t mention it.)

“I hate you right now,” she says once they’re on the sidewalk outside his building. “You know that, right?” He flags down a cab, holds the door, motions for her to get in as he nods. “Just so we’re clear,” she smirks.


End file.
